


Unconditional Surrender

by wocket



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Anal Sex, Apocalypse, Friends to Lovers, Guns, M/M, Oral Sex, Pandemics, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: Tim McVeigh has been waiting for the end of the world.
Relationships: Tim McVeigh/Mike Fortier
Kudos: 2





	Unconditional Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> Lori doesn't exist in this 'verse (sorry).

The world is changing.

Tim’s been preparing for this for years. Well, not _this_ situation, exactly, but some global or national disaster on a grand scale. Say what you will, but he’s been ready: bunker, supplies, all of it. Tim always thought it would be the government, or a nuclear war, not a pandemic, but now here they are. 

Tim had stopped his cross-country traveling weeks ago, desperate to avoid exposure. His mother, down in Florida, had already succumbed to the virus. Tim saw her no more than he had in life. He’d managed to get in one last visit with his little sister, but New York had been one of the first states on the East Coast to get hit bad by the advanced and highly transmissible pathogen. 

Tim couldn’t risk going back.

Tim devours the news voraciously. He watches and reads everything, trying to form a sufficient plan, but even for someone that prepared, it all feels hopeless. He’s now concerned only for himself - and for his best friend Michael Fortier.

Tim isn’t necessarily prepared to let someone into his world, although he’s realizing he needs to make space for Mike if he wants him to have a fighting chance. Perhaps his world could be big enough for them both.

*

When the virus spreads to the west, Tim ramps up measures. It’s not long before Tim stops leaving the bunker altogether. Tim begs Mike to come to him. Tim had already done the hard work of laying in supplies - food, water, medicine, anything they might need. His little house a few miles away from Mike’s trailer is stuffed full to the brim with goods. 

Tim gives Mike updates every single day until the man gives in. 

“I’ll come with you,” Mike relents finally, knowing there’s not much else to be done. “What am I supposed to bring? I’ve never been through the end of the world before.”

 _Just you,_ Tim thinks, _that’s all I need._ The only thing he really wants to save at the end of it all.

*

A day and a half later, Mike moves into the bunker in Golden Valley. He brings some canned food, a few books, a camping light, and of course, a rifle. Tim can smell the weed in Mike’s bag from here. Well, at least he’s prepared in one sense.

Tim laughs. “You think we’re going camping?”

Mike pushes past him. “I didn’t know what to do, man,” he says defensively. “Cut me a break.”

“It’s about time you got here,” Tim adds sincerely. “Things were getting lonely.”

“Couldn’t face the Apocalypse without you, McVeigh.”

“I’m honored.”

Mike takes off his backpack, dumps his stuff on the floor and turns around where Tim is waiting for him.

Tim hugs him, thinking offhandedly it’s the first human contact he’s had in weeks. He lingers a moment longer than he should.

“The sofa’s all yours,” Tim offers.

“You’re too kind.”

*

Tim and Mike had been roommates at Fort Riley, though, and they adapt quickly to their new living situation. They find ways to pass the time. It’s easy to be around each other. Tim tries, and he tries hard. Mike’s a little surprised at how much Tim invests in trying to cheer him up, always trying to spruce up this isolated life. Mike is so grateful for this tall weirdo. He’d be lost without him out there, or sick. Tim had the foresight to prepare for this before anyone else had. 

Sometimes Mike feels like they’re living in a bad Western. Almost every night it’s beans for dinner - Tim jokes about finding ways to make them exciting, but they’ll run out of bacon and ham eventually. Mike’s not looking forward to the MREs. 

Tim cleans his guns almost daily, more out of practice than purpose, taking them apart and reassembling them until they shine. 

“You can’t shoot the virus, Tim,” Mike pokes fun at him one afternoon.

“You sure about that?” Tim grins. If anyone could, it’d be Tim McVeigh.

“You could hang out with me instead,” Mike suggests, watching Tim’s long fingers pop the barrel and recoil spring back into the slide. Tim wipes down the Glock with a rag and racks the slide a few times.

“Do some push-ups if you’re bored.”

“You’re not my Sergeant anymore. How about a game? Do you want to play cards?”

Tim disappears, and Mike thinks he’s just being difficult until he reappears with a board game he dug out from somewhere.

“Scrabble? _Really_?”

“It’s the only thing I have,” Tim defends. “It’s better than nothing.”

“Okay, okay. You’re right.”

Tim could get Mike to do just about anything. 

They set up the game in the middle of the floor.

“You don’t have to —” Mike starts to say when he sees Tim labeling a scorecard.

Tim looks up like Mike just leveled a slur at him. 

“Never mind,” Mike laughs. Of course Tim likes the competition.

The game goes better than Mike anticipated. He’s not really a match for Tim, but at least it’s a different way to pass their time. Finally, in the jaws of defeat, Mike lays his last four letters that spell HOME, and sits back for Tim’s move.

Tim plays the word ENDS off the last letter of Mike’s play, a grim reminder of the magnitude of the situation, and the game is over. 

*

One day Tim gets the call from his dad, the call he’s been dreading for weeks.

Mike knows something is wrong when Tim’s face turns white while he’s still on the phone; he sees the way Tim’s face becomes stoic, the way he falls into military mode. 

Mike holds his breath when Tim drops the phone on the counter. 

“Tim?” Mike finally asks, scared.

Mike reaches for Tim, and he crumbles. He drops in the biggest show of emotion he’s ever seen from him. 

Mike shifts closer. Tim clutches his waist, and Mike can do nothing but let his arms enfold Tim.

“It’s Jen,” Tim croaks, pressing his cheek into Mike’s side. She’d gotten a fever three days ago and it had been quick from there. He’d been so calm when Mike had broken the news of his Grandpa McVeigh passing a few years earlier, and now he was far from it. 

“I’m sorry, Tim, I’m so sorry.”

Tim doesn’t speak for most of that night, so Mike just… takes care of him. Unsure what to do, he starts a hot shower. He was just going to push Tim in at first, but he doesn’t want to let go. So he strips off his clothes too, following Tim into the tiny shower. 

Tim still holds onto him, warm water streaking between them, dripping down their bodies.

“It’s not fair, Mike,” Tim complains, and it doesn’t sound like him. He might be crying, his hands balled into fists, but in the water it’s hard to tell.

Mike presses his thumbs into Tim’s shoulders, massages the tense muscles. What is there to say? Mike just wants him to feel better, not knowing how to make it happen. So he holds him, lets him scream, lets Tim get everything out until he sags against Mike’s chest.

It’s not okay. It’s never going to be okay again.

Mike takes care of him the only way he knows how. 

After the shower, Mike wraps a towel around Tim’s shoulders. He grabs a well-worn but clean Buffalo Bills shirt that he pulls over Tim’s head for him and a pair of sweatpants he thrusts at Tim’s chest. “Here you go.”

“Maybe I like it when you help me,” Tim smirks. It’s the kind of thing Tim will pretend he never said, later. His eyes are still red-rimmed. He puts the pants on himself anyway.

It gives Mike time to pour Tim a glass of water. “Drink some of this,” Mike offers, and then they finally crawl into bed together. Mike keeps holding Tim, feeling like he’s holding him together. All they have is each other now. 

Mike stays awake for a long time, hands drifting across Tim’s skin, until he’s so tired from crying that he passes out against Mike’s chest. 

When Mike wakes up the next day, Tim is gone. The house is quiet.

Mike checks out the front window and sees Tim perched on the hood of his car. 

Mike brews two cups of coffee and takes one out to Tim, offering it wordlessly. It’s the first time they’ve been outside in a while - the government has been strictly enforcing the lockdowns to an insane degree. 

Tim is quietly grateful for the cup of coffee. 

“This isn’t how I thought it would end.”

“What’s that saying? Not with a bang but with a whimper?”

Tim nods. “That’s the one.” _My world’s done for, at least,_ Tim thinks sourly.

Mike steps in front of him to command his attention. “Hey.” He takes Tim’s chin and lifts its up, makes him look at him. “Hey. You’re still here. I’m here. Don’t give up yet.”

Tim nods, pushing Mike’s hand away. 

Mike kisses him in full view of the other houses. There’s nobody left to watch. 

“We shouldn’t stay out here very long.”

Nobody really knew the risks of anything anymore.

“What the hell are we doing, Mike?”

“Living.”

*

Tim has a decent VHS collection, mostly sci-fi flicks and action movies, and they’ve spent all afternoon and evening lounging in his bed smoking weed and watching tape after tape.

 _Planet of the Apes_ ends, always one of Tim’s favorites, and Mike can’t take any more. He yawns, stretching his arms out above his head. It looks like he’s about to get up and take his usual place on the couch when Tim throws a hand out, closing around Mike’s wrist.

“You should…” Tim swallows around the words. “You should stay.”

Mike takes a long look at him, takes off his glasses and rolls back into place beside Tim.

Tim lets go of Mike’s wrist but doesn’t let go completely, brushing his hand up higher and letting it settle on Mike’s chest. Mike’s heartbeat is a steady rhythm under his hand. He lets the cadence lull him to sleep.

*

After the phone call about his little sister, Tim seems lifeless. The light goes out of him. The fight stops. The man who is always talkative and argumentative now just seems distant and cold. 

Mike worries all the time, thinking maybe Tim’s caught something, that he might be sick.

“I’m fine,” he always answers.

 _Don’t give up on me,_ Mike thinks, never working the courage to say it to his face, feeling like a coward all the while.

If Tim says he’s fine, he’s fine.

*

One night Tim leaves the door of his bedroom open, a silent invitation because he doesn’t know how to make any other kind. 

Mike makes up excuses. It’s cold, the sofa’s uncomfortable… _Who cares?_ It’s reassuring to sleep next to a warm body. It’s reassuring to sleep next to _Tim’s_ warm body.

If it’s the only comfort they find in the world right now, what’s the problem?

Tim leaves his door open the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, until Mike sleeping in Tim’s bed is expected and no longer a question.

*

Weeks pass. Their food stores dwindle. Life changes. Society changes. What else are they supposed to do? What options are left?

Tim is a thinker, a strategizer, a man with a back-up plan for everything. But this is so new, so different.

After a while it seems like they run out of things to say, moving quietly around each other in the house. It feels longer than it’s actually been, they both admit. Time is a funny thing.

Tim’s depression (or cabin fever, Mike can’t quite tell yet) gets worse, whether he realizes it or not. He wakes up one night around three in the morning, tossing and turning. He thrashes, waking Mike, who awkwardly tries to figure out what to do, stroking Tim’s cheek until his eyes open and he wakes, sweating and staring at his best friend.

“Damn it,” Tim complains to himself after he regains his breath, like this isn’t the first time it had happened, though it was the first time in Mike’s presence. 

Mike tries to be a reassuring presence, touching Tim gingerly. Tim seems to be okay with it.

“Was it —” Mike doesn’t know how to ask. “Your deployment?”

Tim nods.

Mike turns his face to Tim’s shoulder, grips his friend tightly. “I wish you never had to go over there,” Mike murmurs. 

The pair had become so close as part of their COHORT unit but Mike not being deployed as part of Desert Storm resulted in one powerful experience they hadn’t been able to share. One man fighting for his life, the other worried constantly, wondering if his best friend would ever come back to the USA.

Moments like these shake Mike. Tim’s supposed to be the strong one. 

*

Some days are better than others.

Over the course of a brutally slow week, Mike constructs a beer can pyramid in the middle of the living room that becomes his pride and joy.

Somehow the pyramid represents everything that’s been driving Tim nuts.

One afternoon while Mike’s sleeping late Tim smashes through it while cleaning in the middle of a fit of rage and energy. He doesn’t mean to do it so angrily, but there’s been something bundling up inside him for some time now. Bursting through the cans feels like temporary release. Tim’s always cleaning the apartment anyway, whether out of some need for control or cleanliness or in a frenzied attempt to contain germs.

_Is it still being lazy if there’s nothing to do?_

Mike comes out of the bedroom to find Tim furiously scrubbing the countertops - again.

“Hey Tim.”

Tim ignores him. He’ll probably clean for a while until his funk dissipates. The air feels tight in the house so Mike steps outside, leaving Tim alone with his bleach. He stays out there for some time, sits in a rickety lawn chair in the heat while Tim does his thing. He smokes cigarette after cigarette.

Tim comes out an hour later, looks a little less enraged. 

“Feeling better?”

Tim looks around like he’s going somewhere, then just sits at Mike’s feet. They need another chair out here.

Mike can feel Tim sigh when he settles on the ground in between Mike’s legs. He still seems tense, but like he’s trying to let it go.

Mike rests his hand against the back of Tim’s neck, letting his fingers graze through his military high and tight, sloppier than it used to be kept.

“Your hair’s getting long,” Mike comments off-handedly.

Tim doesn’t respond, just leans his head against Mike’s knee.

*

Without anywhere to go, every morning becomes sleepy and drawn-out once the two men let themselves be close without a need for making excuses.

Mike presses a closed-mouth kiss to Tim’s cheek, meant to be a simple greeting, but Tim turns his head at just the right moment and catches his mouth with his own.

It’s a soft kiss, but when Tim turns the rest of his body to face his, Mike realizes he’s not the only one with morning wood as their groins brush against each other.

It’s all too easy that morning for Tim to press his long, lithe body up against Mike’s, erection digging into the other man’s hip. It takes Mike’s breath away, at first, but it’s as natural as anything to allow Tim’s hands on him, to let Tim press close and grind their hips together, to feel himself pushing closer. He pulls Tim’s hand lower and lower.

Tim brushes his hand across Mike’s cock over his sweatpants. Mike jerks unintentionally when Tim’s hand closes over his growing hardness.

“Do you wanna —?”

“Yes,” Mike answers breathlessly, not sure what he’s agreeing to.

Tim drags Mike’s gray sweatpants down his hips, revealing his cock. Mike helps him pull them off the rest of the way as Tim optimistically kicks off his own pair. 

Their bodies are hot everywhere skin meets, sensation like a burning flame. The brush of hips and groins feels damn good but Tim wants _more_.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” Mike admits nervously.

“Relax,” Tim reassures. “Just touch me. It all feels good.”

They kiss again, Tim’s hand working them both.

Mike reaches down, presses his thumb against the slit at the head of Tim’s dick before pumping his fist around him loosely. It makes Tim gasp.

“Did I hurt you?” Mike asks, about to pull back.

Tim gives him a kiss. “No, ah —” His fingers scatter against Mike’s ribs. “Will you —” Tim has trouble getting the question out. “Fuck me?”

“Get over here,” Mike murmurs, moving on top of Tim.

“Please tell me you can figure this out,” Tim grins hopefully.

Mike awaits his instruction. Tim walks him through it, a flush building on his cheeks.

“You know what to do.” Tim sucks Mike’s index finger into his mouth, swivels his tongue around the digit. “Put it inside me,” he clarifies. It’s weird, telling someone how to fuck him, how to touch him the right way.

Soon enough Mike is working his slick finger in and out of Tim, crooking his fingers when Tim commands him to and driving him wild.

“I’m ready,” Tim breathes. “Come on.”

Mike spits into his hand and works it around his cock. Tim’s body gives way easier than he expects.

Tim lets out a happy groan at the feeling of Mike’s cock stretching him open, filling him up. The preparation might have had a learning curve but their bodies know what to do, Mike instinctually moving his body against Tim’s. He noses against the area just beneath Tim’s ear. He smells like sweat and Wrigley gum.

Mike can’t get enough of the desperate way Tim grabs at the sheets as he fucks him, thrusting harder.

“Harder, please,” Tim begs concisely. “I’m not gonna break.”

Mike obeys, but after a few minutes of fucking into Tim furiously, he slows down, realizing that Tim is still making those breathy gasps when he adjusts his motions to be slower, deeper.

Tim arches his back, body begging for his attention after Mike presses a kiss to the top of his spine. It’s unbelievably tender.

They move together, hips rolling, writhing, Mike’s movements slow and deep. The human contact feels good, nerves set alight. 

Tim’s breath catches in his throat. “I’m gonna —” He’s coming before he finishes his sentence. Tim sags against the covers, rolling onto his back.

Still hard, Mike starts jacking his dick, but Tim pushes his hand out of the way so he can take over. Tim jerks Mike’s cock until he comes, spurting messily over Tim’s abdomen.

Mike thanks him with a kiss.

“Get in the shower, handsome,” Tim commands. “I’ll wash the sheets.”

*

The two men feel like they run out of things to do at one point. Mike and Tim get lost in each other instead, spending hours talking, becoming somehow even closer than they were before.

There’s the television, of course, but spending too long watching it was sure to inspire a lecture from Tim about brain rot. Instead they rewatch Tim’s movie collection as many times as they can stomach, memorizing the films & acting out scenes in Tim’s living room when the delirium takes hold.

They cling to such small ways of keeping sane.

After weeks of talking, the silence follows. It felt like they had said all there is to say. So they move around each other quietly instead, spending days curled up in Tim’s bed, facing each other, knees touching, memorizing everything about each other. Hiding from the world.

“Do you think we’re going to die?”

“Everybody dies.”

“You know what I mean. Because of the virus,” Mike follows up.

“I hope not. But a time will come when we run out of supplies, or when some other disaster strikes. So it will end one way or another.”

Tim rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

Tim’s always been de facto in charge, but Mike wonders if he’d be able to convince him of anything once his mind is made up.

“I love you,” Tim tells him, “but this is fucked.”

Mike can only agree. He can’t remember Tim ever telling him that before, though. It’s so casual. Of course it would be like him to make it so casual.

Mike feels that way too, though, and not just because they’re stuck together. One afternoon he actually works up the courage to tell him, to say the three words out loud.

Tim pulls a Han Solo.

“I know.”

“What do you know?” Mike asks ludicrously, still flustered. 

“Mike, you’re here with me. I know.” Tim takes his face in his hands and kisses him. “You’re the only person I could bear to live with in the bunker,” he flirts.

“Thank you. I think.”

“It’s a compliment,” he confirms. “Trust me.”

“You ever wonder what life would have been like without all this?”

“If it wasn’t this, it’d be some other disaster,” Tim repeats bitterly. Some other foul end.

Tim leads Mike outside, up onto the rooftop. The stars are all out, not a cloud above them. They used to do this together stoned in the desert, telling each other stories, staring at the dark canvas of sky.

Tim lies down and looks up at the heavens. Mike does the same.

“What happens now?”

Tim has no answers, he just takes Mike’s hand.

*

Things get really wild when the raids begin. At first it was just looting, but the chaos and violence permeates the community. Gangs start breaking into people’s homes, stealing anything they can.

Tim’s not worried. Thankfully Tim stored up enough ammo to supply a small army. They’re in no danger of running out anytime soon.

“If those crazy motherfuckers want my property they can come take it from my cold, dead hands.”

It’s not a week later that a gunshot wakes Mike in the middle of the night.

 _Holy shit_ , he thinks, throwing the covers off Tim’s bed. Scared of what he might find, he goes looking for Tim.

“Holy shit,” Mike thinks again, this time saying it out loud. “What’s the sit-rep?”

Tim’s a few feet away from the doorway, gun in his hands, stance still squared away. On the ground at his feet is the body of a masked man in a puddle of blood, 9mm pistol laying a few inches away from his outstretched arm on the floor.

“He broke in,” Tim explains. “I was still awake. I heard him come through the front door.”

“Is he —?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll call the police,” Mike tells him, going to the telephone. Mike’s normally laid-back appearance becomes tense and high-strung. Tim can witness the change.

“Relax. Castle doctrine.”

Two officers from the Mohave County Sheriff’s Office come by not ten minutes later, an EMT close behind.

Tim greets the officers at the front door, interfacing with them respectfully and calmly. They take a look around the crime scene but it’s apparent that this is a routine call for them under the current state of affairs.

“Am I under arrest, sir?”

The officer rolls his eyes. “No. If we took in every poor sap defending his home from these looters, the jail would be full.”

“Thank you, sir.”

It’s not long at all until MCSO is lifting the corpse out in a body bag, business as usual.

The officer nods at Tim, looking to Mike in the corner. Less comfortable around cops, he’s been pacing in the small house, his nerves obvious.

“You two have a good night.”

Both of them breathe deep when the house is cleared of bodies, living and dead.

Mike worries about Tim that night, worries his post-traumatic stress might give him hell, but Tim doesn’t sleep; he spends the whole night on his hands and knees with a bucket of bleach scrubbing up the bloodstain.

When Mike realizes Tim’s not coming back to bed, Mike pretends to grab a Corona from the fridge before crashing on the couch where he can keep an eye on Tim as he half-dozes.

Tim doesn’t stop until the job is done. Just after dawn, Mike sees Tim drop the sponge in the bucket and sit back on his haunches. He puts his head in his hands. He looks exhausted, but he must be finished, because he drags himself up and washes his hands in the sink.

Thinking Mike must be asleep, Tim quietly heads for his bedroom, trying not to disturb the other man, but Mike drags himself up into a sitting position so Tim can see that he’s awake.

Unsure if Tim will take it, Mike offers his hand.

Tim does, though, and he and drops onto the sofa in Mike’s arms. Mike feels Tim let out a shuddery breath against his chest. Mike grips the back of his neck, fingers grazing his short hair.

They settle against each other, not quite sitting, not quite lying down, staying not quite awake and not quite out. The two men keep each other company, lingering in that liminal space between consciousness and repose, tangled, close enough to kiss if they wanted to but content just to be close with one another.

 _What do you need,_ Mike wants to ask Tim, but he keeps his mouth shut and keeps his arms around him.

*

Tim’s hair keeps growing, until his blonde hair gets longer than Mike’s ever seen it before. While Mike’s content to let his own grow out, tying it back with an elastic, Tim craves the military haircut he’d grown used to. So Mike takes up the clippers and attempts to cut it one sunny afternoon on the back porch. He’s not really sure what he’s doing, but it can’t be that hard, and if he messes up, it’s not like anyone will see, right?

Mike takes advantage of the moment to press his fingertips to Tim’s neck, to run them through his hair under the guise of preparation.

He’s not bad with the clippers, and the high and tight comes out a little uneven, but it’s workable. It’s good enough to keep Tim from being bothered by it, which means it’s good enough.

Mike runs his finger across a scar on Tim’s scalp after he finishes the haircut.

“What happened here?”

“Split my head open when I was five,” Tim explains the scar. It had been yet another trip to the hospital for young Tim.

Mike bends forward and presses his lips to the scar, bestows a kiss.

“You’re a sucker,” Tim comments, trying to hide his shiver.

“That’s rich coming from you,” Mike laughs, brushing the hairs away from Tim’s neck and shoulders.

“Is it?” Tim stands up and turns around, easily falling into a kiss with Mike, looping his arms around his neck.

 _He tastes like Chapstick_ , Mike observes, the whole thing feeling unbearably domestic.

Mike kisses him back, just enjoying the moment.

Tim runs his hands through his own hair, relishing the familiar feel of the cropped buzz cut.

“Not bad,” Tim says, in a good mood.

More upbeat than usual, Tim cooks dinner for them both that night. They’ve been rationing their food, but they decide to treat themselves and enjoy the moment. Tim makes roasted potatoes and fries up the last of the bacon. It’s an odd combination, but it’s the best meal they’ve had in ages.

After their dinner, Mike curls up on the sofa, less worried about Tim than he’s been in some time. They had as enjoyable a day as they could, given the looming, ever-present global crisis.

“Where’d you learn to cook like that?” Mike asks him later.

“My Grandpa McVeigh.”

“Of course.” Tim had been fond of the man, Mike knew. It wasn’t the only thing his grandfather had taught him. 

Mike watches as Tim inspects his bookshelf, selects _1984_ and claims the opposite end of the couch. He starts reading the novel out loud to them both. 

Mike enjoys the sound of Tim’s deep voice, lets it lull him to relaxation until he’s sprawled at the other end of the sofa, feet pressed to Tim’s thigh, seeking warmth. 

Tim makes it through a few chapters before he realizes Mike is almost out. Tim drops his free hand, aimlessly stroking Mike’s ankle with his thumb. He keeps reading silently.

*

Mike emerges from the shower to find Tim sitting cross-legged on the sofa, finishing _1984_.

Mike dangles a rock in Tim’s face. “Wanna party?”

“Where the hell did you get that, Fortier?”

Mike shrugs. “Had a little put back. Just in case.” Of course Mike had some crystal meth put back _just in case_.

“What’s the occasion?”

“I’m bored as shit, man.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

They smoke the last of the meth together side by side on the sofa just like they used to in Mike’s trailer. Eventually, as the high comes on, Mike’s hand twitches out of habit. “God, I would kill for a cigarette.”

“If you had slowed down a little bit, you’d still have some.”

Mike frowns. “There’s gotta be something that you miss.”

Tim thinks for a second. “I miss Taco Bell.” He’s 100% serious.

“I thought you were going to say your family.”

“No.” It was the truth.

Blissed out, they melt into the couch, sharing aimless conversation, both of them flirting with each other but without taking it further.

Things stay quiet for a while, and their minds wander, as minds do.

“I don’t want to bury you,” Mike says out of the blue. “I don’t want it to come to that.” It’s macabre, but so is this lifestyle, sometimes. “Promise me you’re not going to give up.” He knows Tim has guns all over the apartment, fearful of the day Tim might use one on himself if things came down to it.

_How can someone agree to something like that?_

“Is this the crystal talking?” Tim asks.

Mike grabs Tim’s hand and pulls it into his lap, extra clingy from the speed. He’s a little shaky. Normally he chain-smokes when he’s high; maybe it’s the lack of cigarettes.

“Promise me,” Mike repeats, knuckles turning white. 

“Okay, Mike. I promise.”

Mike doesn’t let go. He just keeps clinging to Tim’s hand.

Tim links their fingers together. With his free hand he starts petting Mike, stroking his hand over Mike’s arm, soothing his jitters.

Mike leans into Tim, seeking more of the reassuring gesture. His body is weightless and heavy and Tim feels like his only lifeline. He feels like an anchor.

Tim steadies his own breathing in the hopes it will have an effect on Fortier. He just needs to wait things out until the shakiness morphs into something sharper, until Mike can focus on his hands all over his skin.

“You’re not going to be happy if I let you have a bad time on your last bit of ice,” Tim warns disapprovingly, but keeps up the soothing motions.

Mike looks at him, pupils a mile wide. Limbs loose, he starts to melt into the couch.

Tim can’t resist stealing a kiss, one Mike responds to with compliance and tongue.

Tim swings Mike’s legs up onto the couch and tips Mike back until he’s lying on his back with Tim between his legs.

Distracted, Tim fists a hand in Mike’s hair, still wet from his shower, watching the blurred, pleased look in his eyes when Tim gives a gentle pull. Mike’s so tactile and responsive right now, taking everything Tim gives him, turned on by every touch.

Tim leans down for a dirty kiss.

Tim mouths a few kisses on Mike’s neck, not hard enough to bruise. Mike keens a little. Tim works his way down Mike’s pale neck, down to the exposed collarbone that’s showing above his muscle tank.

“How do you feel?” Tim asks, checking in with Mike. He passes his hand over Mike’s side. “You feel good?”

Mike’s tolerance must be shot after months without using after so much daily use. The drug makes him so incredibly sensitive and receptive, arching up under every accidental touch of Tim’s. He’s grinding up against Tim’s hips, swift undulating motions, his body becoming alight with every brush against Tim’s. His body is arching into Tim’s like he needs him.

Tim grinds his own hips down in response. It’s impossible to slow down the growing erection in his sweatpants. He knows Mike must feel the hard line of his cock pressing into his thigh.

Tim brings their lower halves closer, finding himself unable to stop despite Mike’s delirium.

Mike’s pliant body lies there, letting Tim push him wherever he wants. Tim thinks it’s hot as hell.

“I want you,” Tim says earnestly. “Can I—?”

Mike keens desperately into the kiss. “ _Yes_ ,” he implores, conveying more than consent.

Tim uses all the military force within him to flip Mike around. Mike’s hands clutch at the sofa, searching for something to grip.

Tim gets his hand in the hem of Mike’s sweatpants and tugs. He works them off his hips and does away with them completely, desperate to make things easier. His own follow.

Spurred by the drugs, he bites the swell of Mike’s ass playfully. Tim gets a firm grip on Mike’s ass and spreads his cheeks. Tim leans in and presses his tongue flat against Mike’s hole, licking over the sensitive flesh, letting his tongue dart between his lips before dipping inside Mike.

Tim licks him and pleasures him with his tongue, paying careful, sweet attention to his hole. He inserts a finger, licking around it, opening Mike up for his cock.

Overwhelmed, Mike grips the couch, face pressed into the fabric, body shaking. 

Tim uses his tongue until Mike’s spouting words that don’t make any sense, screaming into the arm of Tim’s sofa. Once Mike is wet and opened up and completely incoherent, Tim replaces his fingers with his cock, pressing into Mike until Mike’s clawing at the couch. 

Tim fucks him like a champ, with stamina, fucking like jackrabbits. 

Emboldened, Tim fists a hand in Mike’s shaggy brown hair and _pulls_ , yanking his head back, holding him where he wants him. Tim sucks a wet kiss at the exposed skin of his neck.

Eventually their spot on the sofa gets uncomfortable. Tim hoists Mike up, who hangs on him like a ragdoll. He’s skinny, so Tim’s able to navigate him into the bedroom and onto the bed with ease.

Tim crawls up next to him, leaving kisses on the skin he exposes when he pushes Mike’s shirt up his chest.

Mike tugs his shirt off to eradicate the barrier and throws it somewhere.

Tim sucks a bruise on his chest and drums his finger against Mike’s ribs. “Ready for round two?”

Touch-starved, Mike spreads his legs to make room for Tim between his knees.

Tim presses inside, bearing down, filling Mike up. Tim dips his head to taste a nipple, tongue gliding over his skin. It’s so good, and not just because they’re high. Every sensation leaves their bodies tingling, fires burning in their veins.

Tim lasts for what seems like forever, turning Mike every which way, taking him on his back, on his knees, in McVeigh’s lap until giggles break apart their kisses and they reconfigure to something more comfortable.

Mike winds up on his back again, legs in the air, ankles crossed behind Tim’s back to urge him deeper.

The crystal burdens Tim with the need to constantly occupy his mouth. He presses kisses all over Mike’s neck, bites hickeys into the skin and leaves marks that Mike will regret in the morning.

Tim takes Mike’s ear between his teeth and tugs playfully.

“You feel so good,” Tim tells him, cock buried deep inside Mike. He picks up his pace, thrusting harder. Tim wants him to feel this for days. “Fuck.”

They fuck for what must be hours. Tim’s dick is rock hard, the high from the ice keeping him erect. It takes him by surprise when he finally comes, orgasm seizing his body.

Tim drops, dead weight on top of Mike, sweaty forehead leaning against his shoulder. “Damn,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, palm pressed against Tim’s spine. “Wow.”

Tim rolls off Mike. His heart is still thudding against his chest, his fingers feeling electric.

Mike grabs Tim’s hand; Tim lifts it to his face and kisses Mike’s knuckles. 

“Kiss me,” Tim asks, splaying his hand over Mike’s hip.

Mike grants his request but starts getting restless, failing to find a comfortable position until Tim pulls him close and tucks him under his arm. He plays with his hair until Mike stills against him.

Mike’s palm finds Tim’s chest, the way Tim’s done to him so many mornings. His heart beat is a comforting, steady pulse, calmer than his own jerky heart rate, body still doing all sorts of wild things from the crystal meth.

In bed, they ride out the high tangled together, anxiety from the comedown giving them a good reason to pet each other with distracted hands.

*

One by one, their neighbors die. The constituents of Arizona die. Americans everywhere die. The population of the U.S. dwindles at an alarmingly rapid pace. The raids get worse. The economy disintegrates.

Together, in Tim’s little house in Golden Valley, Tim McVeigh and Mike Fortier hide away from the world. 

Tim is still a news junkie, despite the limitations the federal government has placed on the free press. It’s not just an excess of control, but combined with the surveillance… don’t let him get started. He sits at the counter with a hand-cranked radio when the news stops airing on TV.

“Freedom of the press is guaranteed by the First goddamn Amendment,” Tim’s always saying, but there’s nobody to hear his complaints but Mike.

If Mike thinks the bullshit about press and surveillance is bad, things truly take a downturn when word goes around that the virus was engineered by the Department of Defense. A government inflicting this on its own people? Tim can’t stand it.

“Someone ought to do something,” Tim rants. He gets unbelievably angry after that, depression morphing into rage. “They as good as murdered my sister,” Tim says with a frown. 

Mike can’t argue. He’s scared of what Tim might do now that he has someone to blame.

“Someone ought to hit them where it hurts.”

“But not you, Tim.”

Tim looks up, rage in his eyes. “I can and I will.” He doesn’t threaten anything else, though, so Mike tries to let it be.

A zombie apocalypse would have been more fun.

*

Mike panics one day when he sees through the window Tim on his knees in the desert, holding his pistol. He’s walking out to him before he can stop himself.

“Tim?”

Tim looks up. He slips his weapon back into its holster. “Hey. What’s on your mind?”

Mike shakes his head. Tim is fine. Everything’s okay.

“Sometimes I get this feeling something bad is going to happen,” Mike admits quietly, without specificity.

“Maybe if I didn’t have you it’d be an option but…” Tim sighs. “You know I’ll die with a gun in my hand before letting anything happen to us,” Tim assures confidently. “I thought about asking you about coming with me, once… living on the road… a couple of desperadoes.”

Tim’s eyes on Mike feel like they’re burning a hole straight through him.

“This isn’t how I wanted things to happen,” Tim assures him. 

“Yeah,” Mike mocks. “You engineered the end of the world just so I would fall in love with you.”

A grin starts spreading on Tim’s face. His cheeks are turning red and not from the sun blazing high in the sky above them.

“What?” Mike asks.

“The way it sounds when you say it like that,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

Mike smiles.

Tim looks at the ground before capturing his eyes again. “Are you really in love with me? Or was I just the last option?”

“Shit,” Mike says. “How can you —” Mike swallows. He reaches out, gets a hand in Tim’s t-shirt and pulls him closer. Putting his hands on either side of Tim’s face, he draws him into a kiss. “I think I always felt something for you. My only regret is that it took the end of the world for me to really see it.”

Mike is much happier with the satisfied look on Tim’s face versus the discouraged one from moments before, delighted when Tim gets a hand in his hair and drags him into a wild kiss.

“It’s not the end,” Tim tells him. “This is only the beginning.”


End file.
